<Experiencing Misgendering: A Personal Reflection on Identity>
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I’ve never shared this story before. The only one aware of it is my husband since he witnessed the shock on my face that day.
He comforted me as I processed an incident that remains etched in my memory from that women’s restroom.
Reflecting on that seemingly ordinary day, I wish I could erase the experience entirely.
While I can’t change the past, I feel compelled to recount it. Yet, a part of me understands that perhaps it’s better left unspoken.
It’s challenging to keep such a significant event to oneself, especially when someone’s words can deeply wound and ruin your day.
So here I go.
The Familiar Routine
Every time I visit the Forest Hill shopping center in Melbourne, I follow a familiar path.
I enter through the food court, navigate past the always-busy McDonald’s, and head to the nearest restrooms.
Strangely, I often feel the need to use the facilities as soon as I arrive at the shops. With age, I’ve stopped questioning this habit and simply go through the motions.
When I arrived at the shopping center a week ago, I didn’t think twice about my actions.
Dressed in exercise leggings, a Sherpa hoodie, and with my hair down, I headed to the women’s restroom.
Routine.
…Until Routine Turns Unfamiliar
As I approached the restroom, I noticed a cleaner ahead of me. She pushed her cart, making her way through the door labeled “Female.”
I slowed down, realizing I didn’t want to rush past someone busy with her work.
In my book, hurrying others is simply rude.
Watching her maneuver her cart, which seemed to be blocking the entrance, I assumed she was preparing to clean and needed to restrict access for a while. It wasn’t the first time I’d found the restrooms closed for cleaning.
As I reached the entrance, I smiled at her. But she stared back, her eyes wide as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
I could see her catch her breath.
I maintained my smile and politely asked, “Is it alright if I slip by to use the restroom?”
Her anxious expression shifted. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I thought you were a man. I thought you were a man entering the bathroom.”
“Ah,” I replied. “I understand.”
I then proceeded to use the toilet, wash my hands, and exit.
Did That Just Happen?
I am not a man. I am a woman, fully embracing my femininity since birth.
Sometimes, I wear men’s clothing, but usually, it’s just an oversized T-shirt that could belong to anyone.
To the casual observer, it’s indistinguishable from women’s clothing; it’s merely a T-shirt.
This was the first time someone called me a man.
During my school years, I was often teased for being taller than my peers, reaching 6 feet by graduation.
Yet, never before had anyone suggested I wasn’t female.
This unexpected incident hit me hard, unlike anything I had experienced before.
The first person I encountered after this event was my husband, who was waiting for me near the bookstore. Noticing my bewildered expression, he asked, “What happened in there?”
It’s never a good sign to leave a public restroom looking traumatized. But despite my attempts to conceal my feelings, I couldn’t mask my shock.
“I was just called a man.”
“What? Who called you a man?”
The Worst Thing You Can Say to a Woman
I recounted the encounter as my husband scanned the shopping center for the cleaner. He noticed she was walking away, seemingly unbothered by her comment, continuing her duties as if nothing had transpired.
“Oh babe, I’m so sorry this happened. You don’t look like a man.”
His words were sincere, and after twelve years together, I appreciated how he perceives me.
He doesn’t see me as masculine; he understands how deeply hurtful such comments can be.
Beyond physical abuse, suggesting a woman resembles a man undermines her femininity. It diminishes aspects of her identity and implies a lack of attractiveness.
Part of me has long feared being mistaken for a man—not because I worry about my appearance, but due to witnessing a friend face similar scrutiny after graduation.
At a nightclub, a security guard questioned her presence in the women’s restroom, humiliating her in front of our friends.
I never wanted to endure such a moment, yet here I was, living it.
Was She Correct?
“Why did she think I was a man?”
I hesitated to ask but felt compelled to understand why a stranger would misgender me in such a public setting.
My husband assessed my appearance. “You don’t look like a man. Sure, you’re in pants, but your hair is down, and you’re clearly female.” He humorously gestured towards my chest.
I covered my face with my hands. “Was it because I wasn’t wearing makeup?”
“Even without makeup, you’re obviously a woman.”
“Is it because I’m tall?” I recognize that I tower over many women and often find myself at eye level with most men.
My husband glanced in the direction where the cleaner had gone. “If it were a shorter woman, maybe. But she’s taller than you, so that doesn’t hold water.”
Speak Up or Let It Go
It’s impossible not to ponder why the cleaner felt the need to voice her thoughts.
She didn’t have to express her assumption or provide an explanation for her surprise.
She could have remained silent.
Yet, at that moment, she chose to verbalize something she could never take back.
“Do you think she misspoke?”
My husband paused. “She might not have intended it to sound harsh. Perhaps she merely saw a tall figure entering the bathroom and assumed it was a man. But she didn’t have to say it.”
“That’s the issue. She chose to say it. She chose to label me a man.”
I keep reminding myself—this person actively chose those words, fully aware of their potential impact. It’s a troubling thought.
A lot.
If one person is bold enough to express such a sentiment, how many others share that belief but choose to remain silent?
Speak Up or Move On
“Are you going to confront her?”
As we stood in the shopping center, still in disbelief, I seriously contemplated this question.
Part of me wanted to confront her, to express my outrage at her insensitivity.
But shouting wouldn’t undo the hurt she caused me.
Another thought was to report her to the shopping center management, to inform them about the misgendering incident.
I felt compelled to convey how her words made me uncomfortable and embarrassed in a public space.
I wanted action taken against someone who clearly lacked basic courtesy.
However, those were fleeting, irrational thoughts, quickly overtaken by logic. I wouldn’t confront her in public; that wouldn’t benefit anyone.
I also wouldn’t seek to have her fired. Many are struggling, and she doesn’t need to lose her job over a moment of insensitivity.
My conclusion felt clear. I wouldn’t say anything.
“No,” I responded. “There’s no point in mentioning it to her supervisor. She shouldn’t face consequences for a slip of the tongue.”
A slip of the tongue. I repeated that phrase in my mind.
While I knew it was logical to let it go, I wrestled with the fact that I was making excuses for someone who had insulted me directly.
At that moment, I was grappling with my feelings.
But What If It Wasn’t Just Me?
If it were only about my experience, I could move past it. After all, it was just one incident in a small shopping center in southern Australia, in a suburb that many Melburnians might not even know.
No big deal.
But what if it wasn’t just about me?
That brief encounter, my singular experience of misgendering, is a reality faced by many people daily, every time they enter a restroom outside their home. For some, even their home isn't a safe space.
In that fleeting moment, I gained insight into what it’s like for a transgender person, entering a restroom and facing a stranger’s scrutiny.
I felt their pain, their humiliation, and the anxiety of needing to choose the “right” bathroom. I empathized with the hurt caused by a simple statement.
My ordeal lasted just a minute, and I likely won’t face it again. But I can’t imagine enduring that every day. The thought of entering a restroom filled with apprehension, evaluating every glance, every passerby, and each step is heartbreaking.
I’m brought to tears—not for myself, but for others.
Contemplating the experiences of the transgender community has made me reconsider my response. Perhaps I should inform the cleaner’s supervisor to prevent her from misgendering someone else who is simply trying to use the restroom.
I’m not an activist, but this could be my opportunity to advocate for others.
Once again, it’s not just about me.